


Padawan Pilot

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Baby Driver (2017), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Car Chases, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Manipulation, Intrigue, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Robbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Kylo Ren is not slow--there's a reason he's the pilot, that he's got the job--that he's got every job. He's good at what he does and he can't afford not to be.Ben Solo meets someone who makes him want to ditch it all in the hyperspace stream for the chance to start over.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is, well, the opening scene of _Baby Driver_ re-imagined in the SW universe. I just wanted a high-speed flying car race, okay? Going forward it'll still be very much inspired by/mirroring the plot of _Baby_ , but not so much a direct re-telling.

Kylo sits in the cockpit, foot hovering over the modified throttle and hands gripped tight against the yoke. He draws in a deep breath and carefully maintains the cruiser’s position just fractions above the ground, keeping the craft primed and ready to lift off.

The Ren ready themselves, securing weapons beneath their heavy coats and cloaks that fell against their bodies in such a way that concealed the whole lot. It wasn’t entirely odd that the whole crew wasn’t on the job. This one calls for precision and speed, something that couldn’t always be achieved with a band of five—six if Kylo counted.

He rolls his neck and settles down into the curve of his seat. It’s a mid-range street cruiser, built for speed. It hasn’t got a hyperdrive because it’s not a model meant to leave atmo, but it is more than sufficient for what Kylo is going to need it to do. He takes one hand off the wheel, turns a pale forearm up and taps at the display on his hacked comm unit. Music fills the compressed space of his helmet and he finally breathes out.

He’s ready.

In the passenger’s seat to his right and the row behind, the Ren secure their own helmets and check over their blasters one final time. Kylo knows them only by pseudonyms, and hardly names at that. The Rogue—the Monk—the Heavy.

The three of them get out of the cruiser at once and pop the trunk to retrieve a couple of grav-packs. They’ll need the extra boost to carry what they’re planning on taking.

Credit chips aren’t light where there’s more than you can carry in a pocket.

Kylo watches the Ren disappear inside the imposing building on the opposite side of the street, _Bank of Aargau_ gleaming in durasteel letters as tall as himself along the awning.

The stringy snare cuts out and his head fills with silence.

Music crashes back in again and Kylo is a wild thing in the driver’s seat. He drums against the yoke, the performer purring in his ear. He pumps his shoulders up and down, the leather of his jacket swishing against the leather of the seat. He pounds his heels against the floorboard, keeping the beat.

The world drops away for a moment and there is only Kylo in the cockpit and the music throbbing in his skull. Instinctively, because no reprieve lasts for long, he glances at the rearview.

A police droid and its humanoid partner tear up the corridor in their speeder, alarms screeching to alert everyone around them. Kylo tenses, counting down in his head and hands hovering over the throttle. The speeder continued up the corridor, passing the bank by.

Kylo is as serious as the bass line.

He turns his full attention back onto the ground floor of the bank. He can just about see the Ren through the glare of the sun on the transparisteel front. Patrons are dropping to the floor in response to the brandishing of blasters.

Kylo mouths along as honest vocals finally pour in, attention still fixed on the heist unfolding across the street, body still ready to throw the cruiser forward into traffic. His lips curl over the words.

_Thank you very much, flyboys and spygirls. Right now I got to tell you about the fabulous—most groovy—bloodstripes!_

An alarm somewhere inside the bank sounds, echoing against the other buildings on the block. The Ren are bolting across the street, blasters in hand and grav-packs swinging. Kylo revs the engine, and leans into the throttle as the Ren jump into the cruiser and slam into their seats. He throws the thing into reverse and pounds hard on the fuel-feed with his heel.

The music seems to swell in volume as the cruiser rockets backward down the block. Kylo jams the control into forward-drive and zooms forward and up into traffic.

_I’m gonna dance!_

Kylo weaves through traffic at the edge of the speed limit. His heart pounds in his chest, thumping in his ears with the beat of the music. Outwardly, he betrays nothing. He controls the cruiser with droid-like efficiency, an astromech in humanoid clothing.

It’s not long before there is a cluster of police speeders on his tail.

Kylo leans into the yoke, pushing his little red cruiser to its limits as he zips through the stream of traffic. He navigates up and over—down and under—he wedges the yoke off-kilter and glides through the narrow alley between two massive high-rise complexes nearly completely on the side edge of the cruiser.

_I’m gonna break!_

The music smashes through his laser-focus and reminds him that he’s still got police in pursuit, their sirens striking discordant against the thrash of electric strings.

The Ren brace themselves as Kylo tips the cruiser back and flies up the face of another glossy obelisk-like building. The police press in on him, chasing, eating up atmo. He can feel their intake of breath like a physical thing, as if they’re stealing it from him.

Kylo lets the cruiser fall.

He is weightless.

He exhales, emptying his chest completely, his head light.

The music throbs.

He breathes, sudden and deep, pulling out of the drop and careening into entertainment district traffic. The cruiser slides through ground and atmo lanes, blending in with all the other sporty little things zipping off to indulge in sabacc and drink and debauchery.

The police speeders fall behind, unable to follow in the confusion of multiple lanes passing under and over and through each other.

Kylo slows, leaning steadily into the breaks. A police droid crawls past but doesn’t register any sort of recognition.

The cruiser slips into the semi-darkness of a hangar deep below the entertainment district. Kylo navigates into an area crowded with other craft and eases into a space at the far end. The Ren are jumping out of the cruiser before it’s even fully powered down. The bass line makes a steady thud against the inner surface of Kylo’s skull as he follows, sliding on the slick surface of the service ramp that they are running down.

The Heavy races toward the ship sitting ready in the service bay, remote in hand and ramp dropping as they approach. The compact sentient pounds across the durasteel floors toward the cockpit and dives into the pilot’s seat. Kylo calmly eases himself into the co-pilot’s chair and begins the pre-flight check. Beside him, the Heavy doffs their helmet and coat and stows their blaster in the shadow of the dash on the floor. When Kylo looks again, status lights indicating that the Monk and the Rogue have safely stowed themselves and their takings in the cargo-hold below, a young woman is blinking back at him, waiting for confirmation that they are ready for take-off. She runs a hand through sweat-damp hair and it falls back against her pale blue skin, obscuring the weight of her gaze where it sticks to her brow.

Kylo punches the ignition with his thumb and the light-cargo transport eases out of the service bay.

They approach the customs check with mild trepidation. Kylo removes his helmet and slides a pair of helioshades in its place. Feet propped haphazardly on the dash, he feigns sleep—an overworked trader squeezing in winks between off-loads. The Heavy exchanges pleasantries with the security droid at the checkpoint over the comm in a sunny, girlish tone.

They pass the scan and break atmo, leaving Aargau behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Kylo navigates his non-descript starhopper to the nearest outpost. The station was a bustling hub, almost literally a city in the sky. It had once just been a pit stop, a place to get food and fuel on long journeys along the most direct path from the Core to the more desperate Outer Rim worlds for humanitarian missions. Long since retired from its original purpose, it had been renovated and added onto so extensively that it was hardly recognizable.

Docking his craft at a service station and activating security protocols, he wonders when exactly the outpost had been abandoned—when this sector had lost the interest of the bleeding-hearts of the Core.

No matter. All he’s concerned with is fueling up and procuring supplies for the Ren and their host. The quicker he moves on and off of the outpost, the quicker he can be done with his duties.

The quicker he can make the long trek back to Chandrila.

The quicker he can go back to pretending this life wasn’t his.

Old cantina music fills the tight space of his helmet, vibrates against sensors and filters.

While his tank fills and his cells re-charge he ventures into the depot, inclining his chin at the Dug behind the counter as he goes by. Arms full of provisions for his trip home, he approaches the counter.

“The caf dispenser is empty.” His voice is mechanical, modulated, a jarring counterpoint to the music filling his head. Kylo can’t afford to be recognized.

If his face becomes familiar, he’s useless.

If he’s useless, he’ll never be free. He’ll never get back what belongs to him.

“What’s it to you?” the Dug drawls, flexing his toes in Kylo’s general direction.

“I need four. Not-blue, not-sweet.”

The Dug rolls his eyes and limps out from behind the counter, arthritic-looking fingers gripping against the sticky floor, and disappears behind a swinging door that screeches on its hinges. An alert beeps on Kylo’s hacked comm, his fuel tank is full. He’s wasting time.

Kylo grimaces when the Dug returns with four take-away canteens gingerly held between his feet. He sets them down on the counter and the hot, black caf sloshes out from under lids that haven’t been popped on properly. He taps at the datascreen on the suspiciously silent register and announces a total that Kylo doesn’t quite believe.

He hands over the credits anyway, watching a Rodian dressed for an ice storm on Hoth get far too close to his 'hopper for comfort through the viewport behind the counter. His comm chirps in warning. He grabs the plasto bag he’s offered and snags the canteen-carrier in his free hand. Barreling through the door, he shouts in provincial Shyriiwook at the Rodian. The effect through the modulator is a terrifying sound. The Rodian freezes, hesitates with their hand over the blaster on their hip, then turns tail and runs. Kylo walks around the starhopper, not noting any particular damage. Kylo reaches into his pocket and thumbs the control tab for the ‘hopper, deactivating the alarm. He stashes his purchases inside, disconnects from the service station, and takes off.

He grips the wheel and primes the hyperdrive for the short jump to Belsavis.

The building that houses their operation is unassuming. It was once a temple of sorts. It served an old sect—devoted to the Force and repulsed by humanoid interaction. Still acknowledged as hallowed ground, most people—criminal and legitimate alike—tended to steer clear. Though there were few left in the galaxy who believed in the Force and all that it did, no one wanted to incur its mystical wrath.

The Ren drink their caf, divvy their takes. The electronic readers they transfer the value of the mountain of credit chips in the middle of the table onto will effectively clean their signatures, wash away traces of the bank that might lead back to them in the credits’ digital signature.

The Monk works quietly, sipping and counting.

The Heavy steadily disrobes. She sheds her outer layers and settles at the table in a threadbare tunic and slacks, her bare feet hardly skimming the floor. She seems more dangerous, muscle visible and coiled for strike, when unarmed as she is. The Monk counts her share, a secretive, soft smile on the Mirialan’s lips as he passes her the reader and she downloads the balance to her credit card.

The Rogue is uneasy, agitated. The human male is gruff, his face rugged and eyes narrowed behind his over-large helioshades. He glares at Kylo where he sits in silence, focused on the music in his head.

Kylo determinedly rejects the idea that he is a part of this. He knows what he’s done, he knows he _is,_ so much, a part of this—that it likely wouldn’t have been possible without his participation. He wills the whole ordeal to be over faster, ignores the quiet buzz of the comm on his wrist that tells him someone on Chandrila needs him.

The Rogue’s Basic has the lilt of the Core, a certain swagger that people from Corellia tend to develop. He mumbles something that Kylo doesn’t quite catch over the wiggle of the bass line.

Their host appears from the shadow of the corridor that leads deeper into the building. “Kylo receives a full cut, same as each of you.”

Snoke’s voice is gravelly. His face is twisted and scarred. If Kylo were a child he would be frightened of the imposing, mysterious visage.

Because he is not, he is frightened of the things he does not see.

Kylo twitches imperceptibly feeling the pull of something beyond basic humanoid comprehension, hears a sad sort of song beneath the thrilling cantina beat coming over the audio feed in his helmet. He turns the volume up, trying to drown it out.

“He never talks,” the Rogue accuses. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t talk. It’s not right. There’s something wrong with him.”

“Perhaps you might take a lesson. There is nothing amiss with a bit of quiet.”

The Monk huffs softly and goes through the pile of credits in front of him again, his count thrown off by the discussion. Snoke observes the Ren with spindly fingers tented beneath his chin. He looks at ease, as if they might all be sitting in his salon, enjoying an afternoon of tea and entertainment. Kylo’s gaze is fixed on the humanoid—whether or not he _is_ human is something Kylo has never been sure of and does not care to ask—under the protective tint of his visor. The underlying melody he tries to push away swells louder as he stares and he knows that the source is close by.

A taunt.

A reminder.

“Are you even fucking _listening_ under there? Do you understand anything? Basic?” The Rogue stands, his chair wobbling and tipping back into an upright position again, an unseen hand catching it. “Is it that you’re too stupid or that you think you’re better than the rest of us because you don’t get your hands dirty?” The Rogue approaches on swift feet. He looms over Kylo, gripping the back of his chair. “That is it—you think you’re better than us. You don’t deserve bantha-shit.”

Kylo’s chair tips back in the Rogue’s grip. His body tenses, ready to fight. The Rogue’s free fingers jam underneath the helmet, fingernails scraping against the vulnerable flesh beneath Kylo’s chin, and find purchase against the release.

Kylo gasps as the helmet rapidly depressurizes, torn from his head forcibly. It hits the floor with a clatter, music silenced as soon as the release was engaged.

Snoke’s palm smacks against the tabletop, the sound amplified in the open air of the mostly empty room. “ _Enough_.”

The Monk purses his lips in distaste. “He completed the task set out for him. Let him be.”

“Oh, I didn’t say he didn’t. Just saying he thinks he’s something _special_.” He spits out the word like a dirty thing, moisture falling against Kylo’s face in a fine spray. The Monk slides a loaded credit card across the table in Kylo’s direction. It stops just short of falling off the edge.

Snoke speaks slowly, an unvoiced threat in his tone. “Would I give him favor if he wasn’t?”

Something silent passes between Snoke and the Rogue, the latter faltering imperceptibly. He clenches his jaw and gently eases Kylo’s chair back down, letting the front legs touch the floor. Kylo remains tense, waiting. Snoke makes an expression that is something like raising one gnarled brow and the Rogue huffs. He picks the helmet up off the floor and shoves it at Kylo, nearly knocking the air clean out of him.

Kylo slips the helmet back on and music fills his head once more.

Credits distributed, extra arms turned in, the Ren begin to leave. The Rogue departs first, knocking Kylo’s chair with his hip as he passes. There is a blaster still clipped to his belt. Kylo presses his lips together as the sharp edge of the barrel grazes his forearm. He remains silent. The Heavy stretches and sighs. She throws her coat over her shoulders and pats the Monk’s cheek affectionately as she passes, shoots Kylo a look that tells him nothing of her opinion of him.

The Monk groans quietly as he stands, his knees creaking. The red tattooing against his sulfur-colored skin might be frightening if his eyes weren’t so soft. It’s deceptive, one of the reasons he is so good at what he does. “You are _something_. I think you’re meant for more. The Force, it whispers strange things sometimes. And you, Kylo, are its favorite story.” He narrows his eyes in deliberation. “Or part of it. I’m not sure.” He nods as if having made a decision and slips his helmet on. “Nice flying.” He departs with a swish of his cloak, leaving Kylo and Snoke alone seated at opposite ends of the table.

They are silent for a long moment. The music in Kylo’s helmet has long since quieted, his head now only filled with the desperate song that has been plaguing him since breaking atmo over Belsavis, the pull that has been tugging at his heart since Snoke showed his face.

Kylo slides his credit card back across the table. Snoke catches it and stands. He makes his way around the table slowly. The song becomes a shout, a demand for his attention.

The kyber crystal dangling from the cord around Snoke’s long, twisted neck glitters in the light of the setting sun, burning red through the high windows at the far end of the room.

Snoke towers over Kylo and he’s sure that even with the helmet that Snoke knows the hate he cannot keep from the set of his jaw. He breathes deeply, filling his chest and trains his mind into emptiness.

Snoke sneers, though Kylo supposes the expression might pass for a smile on his twisted face.

“When your debt it paid, we will attend to your training. The Monk is right, you are wasted on this. It is beneath someone so strong in the Force—so purely bathed in it.” His gaze is heavy. Kylo’s throat is tight and he closes his eyes, feeling the ghost of spindly fingers. The melody is _screaming_ though his skull, singing in his blood and making skin itch as if covered with gnawing things. “You are dismissed. I will contact you when your talents are needed.”

Kylo does not relax until he has made the jump to hyperspace.

He rips off his helmet, throwing it to the floor in the passenger’s seat.

He grips the yoke and screams until his throat is raw, the blue light of hyperspace turning him garish in the reflection of the viewport.


	3. Chapter 3

Ben breathes a sigh of relief as he breaks atmo over Chandrila.

It’s nearing the end of the planet’s summer season and though it never gets _too_ hot, he can feel the warmth of the day in the sun that streams through his viewport. It dances against his cheeks and arms, gently burning away everything that doesn’t belong in this place.

He was never of the same mind as the children of other senators—not a walking propo-hol for his homeworld—but he loved it just as much. The modest estate on Chandrila is the one place in the galaxy where Ben had never been expected to be more than himself. This place is where he learned to walk and run and speak—where he learned what it meant to be connected to the universe in a way that other sentients could never grasp.

He eases the starhopper into his spot on the roof-deck. His mother is home, her own craft parked in the space beside. The Falcon is nowhere in sight—the great metal and plasto beast not slumbering in the field beyond the house—though that’s not indication in any way of his father’s whereabouts. He very well could have lost the freighter in a bet, could be working on stealing it back.

Ben opens the dash-console compartment and carefully lifts out a cloth package. It is stained with oil and dust from the chop-shop where he found its precious contents. A few mismatched pieces of tech—contacts and connectors, a half spool of high density microwire coated with red plasto, an old exhaust pipe that Ben enjoys the weight of in his hand and he knows he’ll be able to shape in _just_ the right way with the right tools. His father has them on the Falcon. Ben can see them in the hold under the floor near the engine access, a perfect image in his mind’s eye of the heat gun and the temperamental soldering pen.

He stows the package carefully in the bottom of his rucksack and then turns his attention the helmet that has been rattling around on the passenger’s side floor over the course of his trip. He leans down and runs his fingers along the ‘steel plate until they catch around the discreet ring nestled into the join of the center console and the passenger’s seat. He tugs up, lifting the floorboard away, and places the helmet into the empty space below. There are other things, in a box mounted to the hull of the ‘hopper. Credit chips and cards, false identification, a medikit. A blaster charged and ready, safety on but waiting to be used.

Ben drops the floorboard down again and taps it firmly into place with the heel of his boot. The cockpit of the ‘hopper looks no different than before.

He calls up the lift to the roof-deck and steps inside. In the softly lit space he feels instantly younger—maybe even simply closer to the twenty-one years he actually has attained—the ancient heaviness of Snoke’s influence slipping away. He closes his eyes and pictures the perspective he once had, eye-level with the gleaming white buttons on the wall and his hand enveloped in the warmth and security of his mother’s. Smiling to himself he steps out of the lift when the doors open on the private apartments and carefully into the foyer. He leans gingerly against the wall, conscious of smudging, and takes off his boots to toe quietly through the place toward his own quarters.

“Ben Solo when have you _ever_ been able to sneak back into this house?”

Leia’s voice is soft and warm, an amused lilt in her tone. She is curled on the couch in the family room, an array of datapads and hard-copy documents surrounding her on the cushions and the low caf-table in front of her. The evening news program is playing on the holovision, though she doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to it.

Ben can practically feel her raised brow and sly smile without seeing it. He approaches the couch and sets his things down beside it, leaning over to plant a kiss against the top of her head.

“Exactly once.”

“And why was that?”

“You were on Hosnian Prime, in the middle of a senatorial session.”

Leia smiles and laughs someplace deep in her belly. Her smile fades as Ben walks around the couch to face her. She scrutinizes the scrape on his forearm and the welts under his chin.

"You got into another fight."

She doesn't have to pretend it's a question. Ben's history speaks for itself. He has the decency to look shamed when he tells her a half truth and responds in the affirmative. 

"Is this going to cause an interplanetary conflict?"

Ben feels himself turn instantly pink, heat rising to his cheeks and prickling at his hairline. "That nerfherder deserved it! He was cheating and everyone knew it. He--"

"And you weren't?"

"The Force doesn't count." Ben purses his lips. "I didn't even know I was doing anything."

Leia makes a face. "Was a sabacc game worth giving the Junior Representative from Ryloth a black eye?"

Ben pretends to consider it. "Absolutely."

Leia sighs and picks up the documents from the cushion beside her. "What am I going to do with you, my little bird?"

Ben plunks down beside her with a wry smile on his face. "I don't know, Mamochka."

She breaks, smiling again as she pushes his hair away from his face. "Too much Anakin in you." She hooks a finger under his chin and makes him tip his head back for a better look. "In me, too. Not enough Bail." Her expression turns distant, sentimental. She starts to say something more, only to be interrupted.

"Ah! Master Ben, you've returned!"

"Threepio, would you get the medikit, please?"

"Certainly, Princess. Anything else?"

Leia bristles minutely. "No, thank you." As the droid goes back in the direction he came from Leia turns her attention back to Ben. "Did you at least win?"

"I think it was a draw. Greater forces intervened." She raises a brow. "Not that kind." Though, Ben thinks, he knows it was.

"I called you earlier. It isn't like you not to answer. I was deciding whether or not to be worried when you landed."

"I'm sorry. I was in the middle of priming for a jump. I meant to call back." It does disturb Ben, how easily he lets himself lie to her. For fractions of a second, he wishes she were less like herself, that she'd skim his thoughts the way he knew she could and see his deceit, see everything. Instead, she asks what he'd been up to, if his visit to the Outer Rim had been fruitful—if he'd heard the song he was searching for. "No." He looks away, toward the news broadcast on the screen on the far side of the room but not quite registering the headline. “I think I might be getting close, though.”

Leia hums in response and shuffles the datapad and a couple of flimsi files off of her lap.

C-3PO returns with the kit and Leia rummages through it for the tube of bacta. They are quiet for a moment and Ben is a youngling again, letting his mother tend to the natural battering of childhood.

"I did find some pieces though. They feel right."

He can’t quite describe the fine, clear vibration that tickles his fingertips and radiates into the base of his skull when he touches the bits of junk so carefully secured in his pack. Thinking of it, he itches to have them in his hands. His stomach flutters at the notion of adding them to the other mismatches pieces hidden away in his quarters, how they might look and feel all together, what frequency _they’ll_ sing at and it if might sound like—Ben swallows. He knows Leia has never built a saber of her own but that she would understand all of what is churning through him.

Leia smiles truly then, her fingers smoothing the cool gel beneath his chin. "Do they?"

Ben nods and allows her to treat the scratch on his forearm, bacta making his hairs clump together and stand up awkwardly. He watches her, diving into the warm bath of the bond between them. It runs deeper than mother-and-child, twines with the fabric of things, the strings that tether them together in the cosmos. He feels the ghost of it between Leia and her twin, something bone-deep, cellular, integral.

Something Snoke can’t touch. Ben won’t let him.

"Have you settled on a design yet?"

Ben shakes his head. He can feel the way the pieces should fit together, but he can't quite clear the fog to see the way the completed hilt will look. 

The newscast switches from local to galactic stories. The anchor leads with a story from Aargau, the planet’s main financial institution suffering a huge loss after a robbery. The perpetrators wore helmets and carried heavy arms. The digital signature of the credits they made off with has been killed, the credit rendered untraceable. A teller appears on screen. He seems shaken he starts to talk about the strange grip on his body and mind that he felt from the moment the perpetrators entered the bank, how it hurt to ignore it or try to fight against it. The anchor discusses the possibility of dangerous tech, something utilizing extrasensory vibrational frequencies.

The lightness of the mood between Leia and Ben crumbles.

Her jaw tightens.

He holds his breath.

They both know in their own ways, what the teller truly felt.

“Mom?”

“I’m hungry. Are you? Did you eat while you were off gallivanting through the stars?”

“No—but you know me.” Ben raises a brow and Leia rolls her eyes, a measure of affection returning to the air between them.

“Bottomless kriffing pit is what you are.”

Ben laughs and stands, offering a hand. He follows Leia into the kitchen, a nervous glance at the comm on his wrist when her back is turned. He picks up the control from the caf-table as he passes, turns the news report off, the screen winking out into blank transparisteel.

Later, Chandrila’s moon hangs fat and bright in the sky like fruit that’s been on the tree for too long.

The lights in Ben’s bedroom are set to zero percent. His curtains are thrown open, the moon’s glow turning him to hard alabaster and twinkling off of all the miscellaneous bits of tech spread out on the floor in front of him.

He reaches out into the Force, opens his mind.

It is always a touch overwhelming.

He feels too cold and too hot. Everything inside of him is a molten, flowing thing. He can feel the resonant vibration of the reclaimed tech collection, of all of the tech in his bedroom—his quarters—the estate. He feels the mouse droids and Threepio, the twinge of holosignals incoming and outgoing, latent radiation in the air—digital and natural.

He can sense his mother in her office and knows if he takes the plunge he can follow the precious melody there and find his father, his uncle, in the vast cosmic ocean of the Force.

He shudders, the call of that bond too like the call he has been chasing since he first heard its base-notes and took off in the Falcon to follow it in the middle of the night, worrying his parents and putting the Senate’s Interplanetary Security Agency on high alert.

He breathes out, emptying his chest completely, and pulls back. It’s too easy to get lost in it, too easy to swim in a direction that he can’t come back from without help.

Eyes closed, he knows without seeing that the yet-meaningless pieces are floating. They waver as they lift up off of the floor and hover in front of him.

Ben moves his hands through the miniature debris field, fingertips brushing the pieces and making them dance around each other. They come together and apart over and over again, no configuration feeling right, no pattern fitting in a way that doesn’t feel like _overload, spark, disrupted connection, burn, explode._

He knows what’s missing. He knows he can’t finish it until he has it, until he can hold that song in his hands and house it inside this scrap of exhaust pipe.

Heaviness and warmth flows through the Force. Leia hesitates behind the door.

The pieces fall to the floor, pinging and rolling away.

Ben gestures and they come toward him, settle themselves neatly into the middle of the oil-stained cloth. He folds the corners over, covering them, and gestures over his shoulder. The door slides open gently on its pneumatic track.

“Ben.” Leia steps inside, blinking into the semi-darkness. She crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Are you alright?”

He considers the question for a moment before he looks up at her from where he sits cross-legged. His fingers linger over the folds of the cloth. Leia looks like something from a fairy-story in the moonlight. Ben thinks he can see the rebel princess—the hero. His heart swells with pride.

And shame.

“Ah, yeah.” He pauses, pushing his hair back with both hands. “Yeah. _Yes_. Why?”

Leia purses her lips. “Just a feeling. You know those.” She crosses her arms. “They’re very specific.”

Ben unfolds himself from the floor and picks up the cloth package. He crosses the room and puts it away in the top drawer of his dresser. “I’m okay, mom. I promise.”

“I was thinking about taking a trip. I have to report to Hosnian Prime for the vote on the Trading Guild’s bill, but after,” she shrugs, “I thought I might take some time and visit Luke. I’m sure his students will appreciate a couple of new faces.”

Ben shakes his head and leans back against the dresser. “I can’t. I have—I have to finish searching that sector. I think I’m close.”

Leia sighs and stands. She crosses the room to wrap Ben in a tight hug. He bends down, twisting himself to meet her height. “Don’t fly too far, Ben.”

“I won’t.”

“It isn’t the end of the world, you know. Not finding it.”

Ben lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. He tries everything he can think of to settle down enough to sleep. He counts loth-cats and names the capital cities of all of the planets elected to the top tier of the Senate and then the senators who represent them. He pictures the schematics of the Falcon and thinks of how he might rewire the hyperdrive to make the jump more efficient. He imagines a mouse droid, disassembling it in his mind and then putting it back together again.

Finally, put-out, he sit up and fishes through the bedside console. He finds what he’s looking for and taps at the display on the remote, frowning at it when it doesn’t work and then shaking it vigorously until it does.

The ceiling lights up with the soft glow of an aurora. He watches the shifting of the lights, scolding himself for needing the thing on at all. He is an _adult_ , Maker be damned.

His eyes grow heavy and he lets the kyber’s call lure him deeper, surrendering to slumber.

 

***

 

Ben runs along the winding path ahead of Luke and his mother. His arms are spread and as he runs the wind makes the sleeves of his tunic flutter. His hair is a tangled cloud around his head and the stumpy little braid he knotted behind his ear on the trip to Ahch-To bounces secretly against his neck.

Later, his mother will have to cut it out. The knots will hurt too much pick out or comb, no amount of the sweet smelling soap from her bathroom will loosen them.

Now, he is a hero like Master Windu—Lady Tano—Kenobi, who he is named for, who sometimes whispers to him when it is quiet and still and his night-light is painting colors across the ceiling. Kenobi tells him to listen to Lady Tano, that she is strong and brave and she can teach him to listen for something important when he is ready—a song that will help him find himself, though now he isn’t quite sure what that means.

All he is sure of is that if he willed it, he might fly.

They reach a plateau. The ground is rocky but covered in some native moss that looks cushiony enough to flop down and nap on. The island stands behind them, a choppy grey sea stretching out endlessly in front, beyond the edge of the land they stand on.

The siblings confer in soft tones, though not hushed or secretive—not trying to keep him from hearing.

“Obi Wan was certainly right—the Force here, it’s— _tremendous._ Even I can feel it.”

“Leia, you—“

“ _I_ am just a senator. A princess without a planet.”

“You’re more than that.”

She smiles and watches Ben as he tip-toes closer to the edge, spinning and hopping from one spot of moss to the next and leaning out over the abyss in a way that would have meant overwhelming danger to any other child. “I know I am—but that doesn’t mean that those things aren’t incredibly important either.” Her breath catches for a moment as Ben stumbles and rights himself. “I know who I am.”

Han and Shara Bey come trudging up the path, their climb slower without the distinct advantage the twins share. Ben spins with his arms outstretched, grinning at Han as he does.

“Careful, kid!”

“I am!”

Ben understands that this place is ancient and sacred. He feels different here, though he can’t explain it with the vocabulary he has at his disposal. He feels like he is part of the springy moss and the smooth stone under his feet and the craggy rock of the mountain and the salty wetness of the sea and the sting of the wind. He feels his mother and his father and his uncle as if they are all hugging him at once even though they are standing apart.

Shara and Leia have a quick wit between them. They discuss where on the island might be the best place to build, someplace stable and accessible to place a small starcraft.

Luke shakes his head and wraps his cloak more securely closed. “We cannot deface this place. Craft can land and take off from the shore, where we did.”

Shara frowns. “We can’t leave craft there long-term, Master Skywalker. The environment would completely destroy the mechanics. They’re not designed for a place like this—the atmo—“

Luke looks amused and Leia has a crinkle between her eyes when he answers. “Don’t leave a craft behind.”

Han makes a sound of disbelief. “We’re not gonna abandon you and a bunch a kids out here in the middle of nowhere, Luke. You might have the Force, but—“

Luke puts a hand up. It looks real but Ben knows it is a very good cybernetic. If he listens closely he can hear the tiny _whir_ of the gears under the synthskin.

“I’m not bringing children out here. This place…” He trails off, peering out over the sea. “It’s a sanctuary, not a school. This is a place for—introspection.”

“And that means?” Han looks skeptical.

Leia purses her lips, “A new generation of Masters.”

Luke grins. “Eventually, yes. I think this will be a good place for them.”

Luke’s expression softens into fondness as he watches Ben. As he hops from one springy patch of moss to the next, small pebbles bounce up off the ground. They flow after him like the lightening bugs on the Chandrilan estate in the summer.

“Not for a while yet.”

Shara crosses her arms, amusement and disbelief on her face. “So we came out here for a little sight-seeing?”

“Well, if you knew Old Ben you’d need to see things for yourself, too.”

Han snorts, “You got that right.”

Ben leans out over the edge of the plateau. He breathes deep and closes his eyes and it feels as though the planet itself is reaching up to cradle him. He gasps, a sharp tug on his belt pulling him back. He squeals in delight as his feet leave the ground. Pebbles drop, bouncing over the edge and sailing into the rough water below.

“My little boy seems to think he’s a little bird.”

Ben laughs, breathless, and Leia plants loud kisses over his cheeks and nose. “ _O-oh,_ Mamochka!” He drags out the word as she twirls them, spinning away from the edge of the plateau. “I’m not a bird. I am—Ben.” He grins, showing off the gap where he lost a tooth just days ago. “Just Ben.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ben opens his eyes and blinks at the ceiling. The aurora lights always look strange—both frightening and comforting—with the red-orange glow of the Chandrilan sunrise flooding the room.

When he was small, Ben imagined he was inside some nebula, some gaseous cloud of star-stuff waiting to come together into something great and brilliant and bright and _burning_.

He sits up and rubs his face. He feels heavy, like something is coming. He may not be the Jedi Knight that his uncle thought he would become, but he does know when the Force is trying to make him see something. He knows when to trust his gut.

He looks toward the dresser on the far side of the room. The pieces of tech sing in a high frequency, ringing like a bell. The wavelength does something to him, makes him nervous and excited and a little sick.

Ben knows that he’s close. He knows in his _bones_ that he’s close, that he’ll have back what rightfully belongs to him, that he’ll be done with Snoke—

But to do that he _needs_ Snoke. He needs to make him believe that he’s docile and pliant and willing to give up everything to train under him—

Then Ben will _take it_.

He’ll rip it off of Snoke’s silly dead neck if he has to.

He shivers, imagining then the flickering of his plasma blade and how with the darkness of his desperation and the things he knows he is willing to do—how it will burn red—what that would mean.

He takes a deep breath and slides out of bed. He dresses and makes his way to the turbolift, tapping his foot against the high-polished floor and drowning out the frequency of the tech pieces. In his starhopper, he glances down at the passenger’s side floor.

He primes the engine and takes off.

His comm plinks out an alert and he answers. Leia’s voice rings out from the speaker in the dash-console. “Ben, where are you going?”

“Ah, out—just out.”

“ _Ben_.”

“I’ll be home later, I promise. I’m not going far—I just need to clear my head.”

“Alright. Be home for dinner, at least. Your father should be, too. It would be nice to have us all together.”

“I will be.”

He closes the comm link and breaks atmo, prepping for the jump into hyperspace. He follows the Corellian Run, letting himself be flung into the Outer Rim. He drops out when it feels right, something in the Force tugging at him. Onboard navigation called up, the nav-sim’s voice announces in a crisp accent that he has entered the Arkanis Sector and is hovering near one of the namesake planet’s moons. When asked if hospitable, the sim confirms that there is a colony on the surface but can offer no further data.

Ben pilots toward the moon, surprised when he breaks atmo that there _is atmosphere_ at all with the cloudless, clear look of the place. He checks oxygen and particulate levels as he lands, prepared to retrieve the helmet hidden beneath the floorboard, and finds that it’s not necessary.

There is no customs check, no shield, no defense system to shoot him down.

He hesitates, passing over a lazy-looking city-center and reaching out into the Force, distrustful. All he finds is that persistent tug. Resigned, he slows and joins traffic, following the flow toward the outskirts of the colony.

Traffic thins. Ben drifts, heading in no purposeful direction other than _forward_. He frowns, markers of civilization growing as scarce as other craft. There is a service stop ahead, few vehicles idling outside what seems to be a diner. The building looks inviting if a little forgotten. Ben eases into a space that looks to be readily escapable if the need arises and powers down. He sits with his hands on the yoke, watching patrons wander in and find tables along the viewport-lined exterior wall. They all make neat pictures in the ‘steel frames that divide the ‘port, character studies of life on a far-flung colony.

He feels as if he should be remembering something important about this place, this sector. He scrolls through facts and trivia in his mind, trying to place the feeling—something learned at his short time in university—something overheard at his mother’s elbow on the Senate floor— _something_.

A flash of color in the pinkish glow of this system’s sun as it filters though the atmo catches his eye. He looks more closely, his attention zeroing in on the tall, gingery stranger walking across the lot. They turn and thumb at a button on a remote, their craft letting out a soft _whoop!_ before stepping inside the building and disappearing.

Ben’s stomach flips over, a slow wave of hunger-pang nausea tickling behind his eyes. He sits a moment longer, drumming his fingers against the yoke and watching the people inside as they drink caf and fork food into their mouths. He imagines he catches another glimpse of red hair, feeling the ghost of the tug that led him here. He smacks his palms against the yoke, decided, and retrieves an old headset from the dash-console compartment. He syncs it with the hacked comm on his wrist and tinkling synth music fills his head—a preemptive strike against the torment of the kyber’s song threatening at the edges everything.

Ben takes a deep breath and lets himself step casually inside the diner, following the lead of the Duros that pushes in front of him and claims their own seat. He looks around, lost for a moment, and realizes that the menu has been printed directly onto the tabletop. He scans it, not quite registering the faded text etched into battered plasto.

He’s uneasy.

The diner is as unassuming on the inside as it is without—or as much as it can be to a child of the Republic.

The walls feature faded propos, the seal of the Empire on onion-skin flimsi. Newer plasto-coated posters boast the benefits of joining the First Order, of attending their academies and enlisting in their trooper program, of the good things it does for forgotten orphans—giving them a home and a purpose.

Ben’s heart flutters and he digs in the pocket of his flight jacket for oversized helioshades, fumbling minutely as he slips them on. He sinks down in his seat, sticky vinyl making noise against his pants as he does.

The kitchen doors swing open and immediately closed. Someone shouts over a clatter of cookware. Red hair is framed in the high circular viewport for precious seconds before it disappears.

Ben focuses on the menu again, mind racing. He’s torn between bolting, breaking atmo as quickly as he can and running home to the safe embrace of Core, and not wanting to draw attention to himself.

Though not a poster-child, not a political prop for his mother—he’s not entirely unrecognizable. An Imperial sympathizing colony in the Outer Rim territories is not an ideal place to be found.

Especially one that so flagrantly displays their loyalties.

At the very least, he doesn’t want to become ransom for Kanjiklub in his father’s latest folly.

He scolds himself silently for his _own_ folly. He’s spent time on planets that cling to the Empire and the failed regime of the First Order, but only at Snoke’s behest. Only as one of the Ren. The pilot. The one who gets them in and out as quickly as possible because he has everything to lose in more ways than any of the others can really conceive.

Ben startles when a voice cuts though the synth beat. “And what can I get you on this _lovely_ morning?”

The ginger’s tone is dripping with distain, his accent making Ben’s nerves fray. It’s aristocratic, completely out of place on this moon colony, in this greasy diner with its sticky seats and peeling countertops. He pushes the helioshades further up on his nose and looks—really looks.

He gapes. His mouth tries to form words that refuse to connect with his brain. “Uh—“

“Please, do take a moment.” The ginger—the waiter—gestures to the diner around them. He appears to be the only server working the floor. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Ben sputters and sighs, starting and stopping. He can feel his cheeks go warm. It crawls across his face and the tops of his ears burn. He wishes he hadn’t pulled his hair back, the haphazard knot of it offering no shield. He doesn’t know whether it’s spiking fear or something else that makes the Force around him flutter with his anxiety.

“It’s early, I suppose. You need a double shot to jumpstart that head?”

“What?”

“Caf. Strong. Hot. Mildly repulsive.”

“Um, no, no thank you.”

The waiter squints, a skeptical look on his face. He folds his arms, a pad of flimsi and a marker in one hand. “Did you just get off?”

Ben is thankful for the darkness of the shades, his eyes wide with bewilderment. “Get _off_?” His voice cracks. He tugs at the knot in his hair, lets it loose and slips the elastiband onto his wrist.

The waiter rolls his eyes. They’re an odd shade of grey-green, flecks of chocolate near the middle. His eyelashes are like spun gold. “Is your day just starting or did you just get off?”

Ben’s gut ties itself in knots. He’s making a fool of himself.

“I guess.”

_Smooth._

The waiter smirks, something between amusement and disgust. His expression turns over into scrutiny and he angles himself as if trying to peer over the top of Ben’s shades. It’s a subtle thing, just a shift of shoulders and hips, a tilt of the head. He looks as if he is being coy, dancing around some flirtation with a regular.

Ben knows better. The waiter’s curiosity sings out through the Force. The tug in Ben’s stomach grows teeth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

“No, I don’t think you have.”

“What brings you to the Rim?”

“I—I’m a pilot.”

“What kind of pilot?” The waiter re-crosses his arms in the other direction. The light catches the red-blond hairs on his forearms. They shimmer. Ben swallows.

“Just a pilot. I take people places. Bring them back.”

“You’re a chauffeur.”

“Huh?”

The waiter narrows his eyes in annoyance. Ben still hasn’t removed his headset.

“You fly people around. Anyone important? I can’t imagine who would want to come out here.” He huffs out a bitter little laugh. “Maybe thirty years ago.”

Ben clears his throat softly. He’s sweating under his jacket. “Sometimes, just in the Core.”

It’s easier to lie if there’s a threat of truth involved. His unease ramps slowly the longer he sustains the conversation. He can’t imagine why the waiter is so interested in him. His thoughts turn back to worst-case-scenarios as the waiter shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The geometric First Order emblem appears over his shoulder on the wall as he moves. Another guest calls something across the room, the waiter shoots them a withering look and returns his attention to Ben.

“That must be _thrilling_. Can everyone afford a private pilot in the Core? Or do you make your living off of sycophants and senators?”

“Yes.” Ben blurts out the non-answer before he can think of anything better. The waiter’s lips purse. Ben swallows again, his mouth and throat desperately dry. His cheeks burn.

“Anyone I’d know?”

Ben barks out a laugh that makes the couple sitting at the next table stare at him. “I hope not.”

“Are you _trying_ to be mysterious? Because it’s not working.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ha! Are you a smuggler?” He looks like a loth-cat with a canary. “No one here cares. Core law doesn’t reach this far.”

Ben puts his most charming smile on. “You got me.”

The waiter’s cheeks flush pink, making the dusting of freckles there stand out in stark contrast. The color is gone as quickly as it came. Ben relaxes by fractions. The Force thrums with smug satisfaction around the man standing over him.

“I thought so.” The waiter runs a hand through his hair, cream through gleaming copper. He takes a deep breath and looks down at his flimsipad. “Have you decided what you want yet?”

How Ben could have made any sort of decision while carrying on a conversation, he isn’t sure. “Yeah, ah—“ The waiter bites his bottom lip, brows up and together. “—You are so beautiful.”

The waiter snorts. “Did you just decide that? I’m sure you don’t mean it, as sincere as you’re attempting to look—smugglers are all the same. Scruffy and dishonest.”

Ben’s cheeks heat again. “I do mean it.” He squints at the waiter’s name tag, realizing he doesn’t even know his name. “Kss-uh?” Ben smiles more softly. “That’s an interesting name.”

Xuh frowns and looks down at the badge on his chest. He flicks it hard with two fingers and the digitype flickers and corrects itself. “My name is Hux.”

“Hux?”

“Yes.” The waiter— _Hux_ —watches him for a moment, scrutinizing again. “Well, if you ever decide what you want, wave me down.”

Hux walks off. A buzzer sounds from the kitchen, drawing Hux’s attention away from the customer how has stopped him to ask for another cup of caf.

 _Double shot,_ Ben thinks. _Strong. Hot. Mildly repulsive._

Ben watches him, framed between the scenery beyond the transparisteel and the tall poster on the wall beside the kitchen door. He looks as if he has his own personal guard, the paper-and-ink Stormtrooper poised to strike.

It seems fitting.

Something in the Force flutters. Hux looks over his shoulder, gaze pinning Ben down for a fleeting moment. He smirks.

Ben peels himself off of the sticky vinyl and leaves.


End file.
